Handling a Blood Moon
Mother may be a pain in the neck, but she is often right
The Enchantress climbed the spiral stairs to the Rotunda of Colloquies with a weary, sluggish step that belied her lithe frame and youthful, yet plain, visage framed by blonde tresses. Discourses with Mother were often instructive but invariably infuriating, as the older mind spared little tongue in mercilessly scrutinising her offspring’s private and professional life.
Still, it had to be; the fluctuations in the Sisterhood’s politics and hormone levels were magnifying ahead of a perfect Blood Moon, with the danger of a power move on her faction she had only sensed at the last moment.
As always, there were collateral issues to be solved, this time round involving a tender, pubescent boy from the Merchants Guild, delivering the supplies for potion production in overtight pantaloons who was beseeching her to go out with him with suspicious fervour.
Unfastening the seven locking spells and shooing away her guardian flock of diminutive fire-ravens, she grunted as she wrestled with the massive oak door.
Mother was, typically, raring to start. As taught from childhood, Daughter first outlined the facts, continued with listing premises and concluded with an analysis of personal bias and risk mitigation factors.
Yes, the girls were getting frisky and plot-happy, the spoiled potion ingredients were not a coincidence, and the fetching young man was a plant, as she had neither the face, boobs or disposition to be a male magnet.
Mother nodded sagely and picked apart a few strands of her daughter’s logic, but desisted from going full-critic. The younger woman was surprised to have been let off so lightly, but it may have had something to do with her swift decision on how to proceed with the handsome bearer, which evoked shiny appreciation from her mother’s cheek bones.
She would transmogrify her false suitor into a piglet, slowly bake him and send him with a greeting card to those spell-casting, half-mongrel bitches!
After some small talk about how philandering Father was doing, trapped in the carp pond, the Sorceress kissed Mom softly on the forehead and placed her skull among the others on the venerated shelves of the glass-faced Ancestral Cabinet.
Her descending gait was lighter, with a hint of hip. She was looking forward to the squealing.
The above texts were first published on Twitter and are © 2023 by David Pahor.
Please subscribe to me with your e-mail, so we can stay connected when I start serialising my novel, amidst the fall of the platforms. You can always unsubscribe.
If you like my stories, please recommend them to others. Medium’s algorithm is not kind to speculative flash fiction.
In my Twitter list, you will always be able to find all of my new flash fiction, recounting Kekuros’ tales of Iaanda, Garnaaq and Sorkaii — and assorted wizards, umbras and lethal females — https://t.co/Y3YrWpfkm7 .
(The rest of David’s tales on Medium)
